To the Evening Star over Grasmere Water

The Lake is thine,
The mountains too are thine, some clouds there are,
Some little feeble start, but all is thine,
Thou, thou art king, and sole proprietor.

A moon among her stars, a mighty vale,
Fresh as the freshest field, scooped out, and green
As is the greenest billow of the sea.

The multitude of little rocky hills,
Rocky or green, that do like islands rise
From the flat meadow lonely there.

Embowering mountains, and the dome of Heaven
And waters in the midst, a Second Heaven.
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